


Specs

by Once_More_With_Feeling



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Childhood Friends, Friendship, Nothing Hurts, Thomas and Phyllis as kids, ridiculous cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-23 14:22:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12509400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Once_More_With_Feeling/pseuds/Once_More_With_Feeling
Summary: It seems Thomas may need glasses. Phyllis thinks she knows why.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know where this came from. I just kind of love thinking about Thomas and Phyllis' childhood together, and this is what came of it. I hope you all enjoy... Chapter 2 to follow in a few days.

**1897**

“Mum, can I go now?” Phyllis called, the last bite of her dinner shoveled from her plate to her mouth.

“No, you’ll finish chewing first, little miss. And clean the dishes as well,” her mother answered.

“But Mum, he’ll be waiting for me!”

“Dishes, Phyllis,” came her mother’s calm reply.

She sighed. She tried to reason with herself that the quickest way to get out of the house was in fact to clean the dishes, and not waste time complaining. She made quick work of them, then brushed the crumbs from the front of her dress. Best to make a decent show of it.

She walked carefully into the sitting room, where her mother sat sewing by the fire.

“Now can I go?” she asked delicately, trying not to look too eager.

Her mother looked up at her. “Nine o’clock?” she asked.

Phyllis smiled, and nodded. “Choir practice is over at half past eight, so nine’s the latest I’d be.”

Her mother smiled back at her. “Alright then,” she answered. “You put on your coat, though.”

“I will, of course,” Phyllis answered, and dashed out the door, one arm in the sleeve of her tweed peplum.

She kept herself from running, and tried to be lady like, as she walked down the lane. Margaret had been thrilled last month, when she found out she’d got into the church choir. And Phyllis had been happy at the prospect as well, when Margaret had asked her to look after Thomas on Monday and Thursday evenings while she practiced. Mr. Barrow could be counted on to go to the pub each night after he closed his shop, which left no one to put Thomas to bed. Phyllis loved to be trusted in this regard—she felt very grown up, indeed—but she also had to admit that she looked forward to spending time with Thomas. She had never in her life met anyone else who was so funny without meaning to be.

She walked up the steps to the front door of the Barrows’ home, and pushed the door open, knowing it would be unlocked. Margaret would have left already, and Thomas was usually waiting for her at the front of the house, sometimes out on the steps, even. Tonight, though, she didn’t see him immediately upon entering. She walked through the sitting room and into the kitchen, where she saw on the table a large book that seemed to be sitting up on its end, of its own accord.

Just then, the book fell flat to the table with a thud, and there was Thomas, looking back at her, with blue eyes much larger and rounder than they usually were, behind the frames of giant round spectacles.

Phyllis knew him well enough to know what laughing in his face would do to him, so she stifled her laughter by pretending to cough.

Unconcerned, he asked, “You have a cold, then?”

She coughed (laughed) again, and brought her hand to her mouth. “I suppose I might,” she replied carefully, and he raised his book again.

“Well, don’t cough on me. I haven’t the time to get ill.”

She nodded and cleared her throat one more time. “Thomas?” she asked.

“Hmm?” came from behind the large tome.

“Is there… something different, about your eyes?” she asked.

He dropped the book again. “Well, obviously,” he answered. She waited. “These were my mum’s specs. I found them in the book case,” he informed her, rather haughty. “And she’s dead, so she doesn’t need them. That means they can be mine.” And he raised his book again, after giving her a smug grin.

Grateful that the book’s great size kept him from seeing her face, she allowed herself a smile. “Well, I’m sure you’re right about that,” she said evenly.

“Of course I’m right,” he answered, again from behind his book. She waited another few seconds, and he lowered the book once more. This time he spoke in earnest, and told her, “I’m lucky to have found these specs when I did. Specs make you keen—everyone knows that. And now I’m going to read everything there is, and be the cleverest boy at school.” He smiled, and she smiled back.

“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble with that,” she said, equally as sincere as he was. “But I think it’s time you washed and dressed for bed. Come on, now. I’ll help you, and then we can read something together.”

He slammed the book shut with a mighty thump, and slid down from his chair. “Alright,” he said, and teetered on his feet. “That’s funny,” he mumbled to himself, as he nearly slammed into another chair. “The floor is slanted downwards…” He put his arms out for balance, and Phyllis guided him from behind, around obstacles such as door jams and a very troublesome footstool, on their way toward the stairs.

***

He consented to removing the specs while he changed, but insisted on putting them back on once he had put on his flannel sleep shirt, and then a house coat and wool socks. He then convinced her that they would both be warmer reading a book downstairs by the fire, rather than up in his room.

“What would you like to read?” she asked him. “I think Margaret has got a copy of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ somewhere.”

He wrinkled his nose. “That’s just a book about a girl and a rabbit,” he said. He paused for a moment or two. “I don’t like rabbits,” he said, clarifying.

“Oh,” she said. This was news to her. “Well, do you like girls?” she asked, teasing.

She certainly hadn’t expected him to proclaim his devotion to some little girl at school; he was a bit young for that. But his answer surprised her all the same.

“I like you,” he declared, and looked at her, his eyes like moons behind the thick glass. She smiled. “And I like Margaret, sometimes, and I liked my mum. And that’s all,” he said, and crossed his arms over his chest. Then he uncrossed them. He was clearly _not_ being a child about this.

“Well,” she said, smothering her laughter yet again. “I’m sure that’s fine,” she answered. “But if we’re not going to read _Alice_ , what should we read?”

“I want to read _Ivanhoe_!” he answered immediately.

“ _Ivanhoe_?” she repeated. He nodded enthusiastically. “That’s a very… big book, isn’t it? And rather old?”

He frowned. “It’s a classic, Phyllis. How’m I going to get grown up without reading _Ivanhoe_?” he asked.

She nodded, as seriously as she could. “No, I’m sure you’re right about that. _Ivanhoe_ it is. Where is it?”

“It’s downstairs already,” he said, adjusting his glasses on his nose, as if preparing for a feat of great intellectual prowess. “I started it this morning.”

“Oh, well, yes. Of course you did,” she answered.

He nodded, and they headed back down the stairs.

By _started,_ Thomas of course meant that he had slogged his way through the first paragraph or two. Once they were seated next to each other in a wide cushy armchair facing the fire, the giant tome spread across both their laps, Thomas attempted to pick up where he had left off. Unfortunately, his newest treasure seemed to impede reading rather than expediate it.

“Maybe you should read it,” he said after a few minutes. “You’re older, and you’ve probably read it before.”

“Alright,” she said, and began to pick her way through the heavy prose. After another few moments had passed, she felt his head becoming heavier on her upper arm.

“Phyllis?” he asked, his voice sounding small, and somehow very seven years old again.

“Yes?” she answered softly.

“My eyes hurt,” he confessed.

Resisting the urge to suggest that perhaps this was due to his wearing the ocular prescription of an apparently nearly blind woman for the past two hours, she said instead, “Maybe you’re getting tired. Why don’t you close your eyes for a bit?”

He heeded her suggestion, and leaned trustingly into her. She sat still a moment, then wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Then she whispered, “Why don’t you take off your specs now? Everyone takes off their specs when they go to bed, Thomas. Even grown-ups.”

“Really?” he asked, with a tremendous yawn.

“Really,” she assured him, and he allowed her to carefully remove the glasses, and place them on the table beside their chair.

“They were my mum’s,” he said softly, his eyes still closed. “And now they’re mine.”

“Yes,” she agreed, her arm wrapped around him again. “I’m sure she would have wanted you to have them… Maybe someday you’ll have a pair all your own,” she said.

“I hope so,” he murmured, then fell asleep.

She stayed there beside him for another hour, until Margaret came home. The two girls then roused him enough to get him to walk up the stairs and climb into his bed. They each kissed him in turn, and tucked him under his blankets, where he would be warm and safe, well before his father came home.


	2. Chapter 2

**1927**

He wished he could continue reading, but instead closed his eyes against the ache he felt behind them. He brought his hand to his forehead, and massaged one temple. It must be the lighting, he thought. It had always been dim in the servants’ hall, even with electric lights.

“Headache?” a voice near him asked, startling him from his thoughts.

He looked up to see Phyllis standing in front of him. He frowned. He had thought she had gone home to her cottage more than an hour ago.

“No,” he said, defensive. Her eyes softened, and so did his voice. “Not exactly, anyway… just my eyes. They ache, sometimes.”

She reached for his book, and he handed it to her.

“When you read?” she asked casually, inspecting the cover.

He considered. “Sometimes,” he answered. “But always at night. I don’t know why.”

She gave his book back to him. “Hemingway?” she asked. “Isn’t he American?”

“I believe so,” he answered, and returned to his page. The letters swam in front of him, the ache in his head worsening. “Damn it,” he said, under his breath.

She sat down in a chair near him. Wasn’t she ever going to go home?

“Maybe you should get your eyes checked,” she said, shrugging one shoulder.

“Checked for what?” he demanded.

She smiled a little. “Your vision, silly. Maybe you should see an oculist.”

“Why?” he asked. “So he can tell me the words on the page are wibbly at night? I’m quite sure I know that already.”

Phyllis shrugged again. “Maybe you need specs,” she said. She raised her eyebrows, and it was a battle of wills then, as to which of them would give in and smile first, knowing what they both remembered.

In the end he won, having far more practice at hiding his feelings. “Are you calling me old?” he deadpanned, no hint of enjoyment in his face to match hers.

“No,” she said with a grin. “Just a little bit blind, maybe.” She stood from her chair and made to leave. He scowled, but let her kiss him before she walked out the door. “Goodnight, grumpus,” she said fondly.

“Goodnight, sunshine,” he answered, with as much sardonic bite as he could muster. When she was gone he scrunched himself down further in his chair, in a full slouch. Hmph. Specs, indeed.

***

When the bells on the board behind him began to ring, signaling the end of the servants’ breakfast, and time to get to work, Thomas made his announcement as coolly as possible.

“I’ve an appointment in York this afternoon,” he said. “I’ll be leaving after the family’s luncheon, but I’ll be home in time for their tea. Mr. Bates, you can mind the front door, and the hall boys for me, can’t you?”

“I’m sure I can, Mr. Barrow. The family doesn’t have anyone visiting that they know of. We’ll be fine.”

“Good,” he answered, and stood. Just as he reached the doorway of the servants’ hall, he felt someone at his elbow.

“Which train are you planning to catch?” Phyllis asked.

He turned around to face her. “The two o’clock. Why?” he asked.

She blinked. “I thought I’d go with you.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and not just because they were already aching. “That’s not necessary, Miss Bax—Mrs. Molesley.”

She smiled. “I know, but I want to make sure you don’t bump into things on the way.”

He pursed his lips. Somehow he wasn’t in the mood for teasing. “I’m fine,” he answered.

His short answer must have been what made her relent, and change her tactic. She lowered her voice. “I know you’re fine,” she said. “I just thought, on the small chance that something was… wrong… that you ought to have a friend with you. Just in case,” she added lightly.

Thomas considered this a moment. He remembered all those years ago, when Mrs. Patmore had nearly gone blind, and had to have an operation. The thought made him lurch just a little, and he cleared his throat. He hated to admit it, but she was probably right. The closest he could come to saying that aloud, though, was, “Alright. But there’s nothing wrong, and you have to buy the tea.”

Now she rolled her eyes. (Show off.) “Fine. I’ll meet you by the back door at half one.”

***

There was nothing wrong. Nothing, that is, except that he needed glasses.

The oculist had him cover one eye, read some letters, cover the other eye… look through different lenses and tell him what was clear and what wasn’t. It seemed like possible quackery to Thomas, but the possibility of fewer headaches and being able to read in peace again goaded him on.

When he’d finished his exam, he returned to the waiting room to find Phyllis there. He was reminded briefly of a similar situation three years ago, when she’d waited for him while he was with a doctor. At least this time he wasn’t poisoning himself in vain. And this time there was what Dr. Clarkson would call “hope.”

Neither of them spoke until they’d left the building. Once out on the street, Phyllis asked him, “Well, what did he say?”

“What do you think?” he asked, trying not to be impatient. “He said I need specs. Said he could make them up for me, and I can come back round again in a fortnight and collect them.”

“Hmm,” she answered. She waited.

“Might as well get a walking stick and an ear horn, too, and be done with it,” he grumbled.

She took his arm and they began walking slowly away from the office building. “You used a walking stick for a bit a couple of years ago,” she reminded him gently. “And you didn’t look old. I thought you looked very dapper.”

He looked down at her. “You did?” he asked doubtfully.

“Yes,” she said, nodding.

“Do you think I look old now?” he asked. “I mean… do I look older than I am?”

She shook her head. “Your age suits you,” she said, sincerely. After another moment, she asked, “Thomas? What’s making you so spikey about this? Surely getting specs isn’t the end of the world.”

“No, but…”

She waited again.

“Specs will…”

“What?” she finally asked.

“They’ll ruin my face!” he blurted.

She stopped in the middle of the footpath. “Thomas,” she said seriously. “Nothing could ruin a face as handsome as yours.”

“Do you think so?” he asked, as he examined his reflection in a shop window.

She smiled just a bit, and wondered for a moment where the little boy she had once known had gone—the little boy who had wanted specs more than anything, so he could be grown up. The answer was simple, of course. He had grown up, and become this complicated man, who now wanted to look young. Or at least, not old.

She continued to smile, knowing he could see her reflection as well. “Yes, I do think so,” she answered firmly. “Now come on. There’s a tea room around the corner. We have time for a cup before we get on the train.”

***

Phyllis came down the servants’ staircase, after seeing Her Ladyship off to join friends for tea, and began looking for Thomas. He had gone into York that morning to get his new glasses, and she truly did want to see him in them.

She walked toward his pantry, and finding the door closed, knocked first, then entered. She could barely contain her laughter at what she saw inside, but knew from a particular previous experience to maintain a serious expression.

For there, sitting at Mr. Barrow’s desk, wearing Mr. Barrow’s new spectacles, sat Master George Crawley, who appeared to be going over the months’ ledgers. He looked up at her with giant blue eyes when she entered, and smiled.

“Well, there you are, Mr. Barrow,” Phyllis said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

George’s smile widened, so she could see the gap where he was missing a tooth. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Molesley,” the little boy answered. “But I’m not Mr. Barrow. I’m George.”

She leaned forward slightly, as if to further inspect the man (boy) at his desk. “Goodness, Master George, you’re right,” she said. “With those spectacles, you look just as grown up as Mr. Barrow, and I thought you were him.”

George looked pleased with himself.

Just then, Phyllis felt someone enter the room behind her. She turned around to see Thomas next to her. He appeared to be struggling as much as she was to hide a smile.

“Don’t,” was all he said.

“I would never!” she said, feigning astonishment. She leaned a little closer to him then. “Only don’t let him wear those things forever,” she said softly. “They might ruin his eyesight, and he’ll need specs one day.”


End file.
